


Mercy

by charliewalkertexasranger



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: Being Walked In On, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Improvised Sex Toys, Other, Unrequited Crush, cargo ship, gonna be surprised if anyone except fallow actually clicks on this, kill me, robbie fucks a plant, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 07:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13406802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliewalkertexasranger/pseuds/charliewalkertexasranger
Summary: Robbie hits his head a little too hard.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> im gonna kill myself

As Robbie shuffled out onto Kirby's deck, bottle in hand, he thought about Charlie.  
  
There was so much left to say between them, and, if the killings that had already happened, and the looming threat of more, was any indication, there was so little time left for them to say it all. Robbie could barely find the strength to carry on when it hadn't already been taken care of, because if he was going to die, he thought, he wanted to die feeling like something more than a closet boy with more issues than letters in his full name.  
  
Even if it would be a bit prideful to label it mature, he couldn't help but think it was the  _mature_ thing to do, in his situation, to stay quiet. Charlie was straight. He didn't like Robbie, not in the way Robbie wanted, and he never would. Robbie could move past that, in time, but he doubted highly that Charlie could ever move on past the hostility that would grow between them like a weed if Robbie tried to keep Kirby away out of toxic envy.   
  
Robbie would have to be stoic, and ride through the pain, if he wanted to keep anything the way it was.  
  
Normal.  
  
Not that he knew what normal was, anymore. Any idea he had of the concept was forever caught in a shadow of bloodshed, now.   
  
Despite his worries, his uncertainty, he knew there was no easier way to do that, to maintain his stuttering definition of normal than to encourage Charlie's freedom, and be happy for him, like he'd been doing for too, too long now, too long to stop. If he distracted himself with how  _happy_ he was to see Charlie finally opening up to someone, finally getting what he wanted, then, perhaps, the pain would not hurt as much.  
  
But the mature path wasn't always the easiest one to take. Stumbles were impossible to avoid.  
  
And Robbie Mercer was about to plummet beneath his own repression.  
  
The bitterness of the alcohol was heavy in his mouth, and it clung to his every breath like it was intertwined; he could taste and smell nothing but the aftertaste, leathery and pungent, to the point where he wasn't sure if he was just drunk, or if it was just him being overpowered by the flavor. He loathed it. It made him recoil with every time he took a sip, and it burned all the way down to his gut like aching fire. Oh, how he  _loathed_ it. But it was a way to cope, even if it destroyed him. It made him feel safe, and comfortable, and with a few fleeting exceptions where he remembered that the cops were probably looking for him, that he'd finally lost his longtime crush to a girl, and that he was stumbling around in the dark with only his homosexuality to save him from being slaughtered where he stood, and, after  _Bride of Chucky_ , he knew it wasn't so reliable, excluding all those relapses of thought, it made him  _happy_.   
  
No, it didn't. It made him  _feel_ happy. There was a difference. People who were happy didn't have to fake it. People who were happy didn't feel their stomachs turning inside of them as they struggled to keep composure in the wake of watching everything they'd ever wanted slipping away from them and having to keep a straight face about it all.   
  
People who were happy didn't feel the need, at all, to break down and die.  
  
As happy as Robbie tried to seem, and as happy as he knew he passed for, with the alcohol, and the kiss he knew was about to occur back in the house, he couldn't convince himself to be happy.  
  
That was when he heard a noise, and decided to go investigate. If he died, he told himself, it would be a blessing.  
  
He wasn't sure if it came out of his own mind, but what he was sure of was his ankle slipping out from beneath him and the shot of pain that burst through his forehead. What he  _was_ sure of was looking up and seeing everything he'd ever said and done and known erupt before him, as if he could move between it all at will. A spike of terror slammed his heart into weightlessness, leaving pain to bloom in his chest, right beneath his throbbing sternum. And as soon as he realized his vision was gone, he could see again.  
  
Gay as he was,  _safe_ as he was, he still expected to see flowing black robes and a knife aimed for his fragile throat.  
  
But he didn't.  
  
He saw a plant.  
  
It was a potted fucking plant.  
  
A potted, motherfucking, plant.  
  
But there was something more  _to_ it than that, something Robbie couldn't quite place, something that left his pulse thundering in his ears like bubbling lava as he was sent stumbling back, reeling, something that made his fingers long for touch and saliva build in his mouth. It was a strange thought to dwell on, really. But closet boys weren't afraid of being strange—they were afraid of other people knowing. So on Robbie dwelled.  
  
That potted plant was very, very sexy.

It was crazy, stupid, insane, a testament against everything he'd ever thought he'd figured out about himself, and as he stood there, trying to process it all, he noticed his camera lying on the deck, and in that moment of foggy confusion and undiluted lust, he left it, his most prized possession, lay. There were more important things. And no one needed to see what was about to happen between him and his newfound love.  
  
Then he remembered Charlie.  
  
Fuck him. Literally and metaphorically. Fuck him for being straight, fuck him for trying to hook up with Kirby right in front of someone who thinks that he's the second coming of Jesus, which he could very well have passed for in Robbie's mind, with that smooth long hair and those dazzling blue eyes and those young, sweet features, and fuck him for being so  _perfect_.  
  
But not as perfect as the plant.   
  
There was just... something about it, something in the air, something radiating from his surroundings, that Robbie could not find an explanation nor an answer for, and he had no idea how to react but to go with his raging instinct. He'd never seen anything like it, anything that left him buckling at the knees and overwhelmed to the point of yearning to scream out all of his blazing emotions until he had no voice left. He'd caught Charlie naked once, by accident, and though that had graced his fantasies for years afterward, despite that, at the time, neither of them had been too physically developed. But those years were  _nothing_ compared to this, unmatched in intensity and passionate fire. There was an electric draw between him and the plant, like a rope tied around them both and yanked taut.  
  
It was too fucking much.  
  
Then Robbie realized it was Kirby's plant. Or her mother's, at least. If he took it anywhere, he'd be a thief.  
  
Kirby stole Charlie.  
  
And there was no doubt in Robbie's mind that she loved him.  
  
Why couldn't  _he_ steal what he loved, too?  
  
Before that failing justification could collapse, he proceeded.  
  
He lifted it up and hauled it off the hook like nothing happened and carried it off the deck and into the bushes, only stopping to, with one unsteady hand, dump the bottle he'd been drinking from and turn his camera off and leave it unmanned on the floor. If there was a brief moment of lucidity in his animalistic frenzy to get the plant alone, it didn't amount to anything but minor stress or an even more minor distraction. He had to have it. There was no choice. The impulse clawed at his churning stomach with razor-sharp talons, piercing his insides and sending gushes of hot blood bubbling into his belly. Could he stand that any longer? Did he  _deserve_ to have to suffer like that, when there was so much suffering already, in Olivia's death, in Jenny's, in Marnie's, in the stabbing of Sheriff Dewey's wife that was very much his fault?  
  
No.  
  
He didn't.  
  
That's why he needed to have this. He needed to be given relief, just once.   
  
Mercy.  
  
This was  _mercy_.  
  
He wedged himself between two rows of rosebushes and comfortably seated himself between the thorny branches that outstretched from the tangles of leaves, and when he found a position that suited him, with his back leaning down a bit, and his legs spread and bent, due to the space constraint, he took a look at his plant.   
  
_His_ plant.  
  
He could take the sound of that again.  
  
_His_ plant. It was  _his_ plant. It could be  _his_ plant until he died, which, right now, he knew, could be very, very soon. And that was only another reason to go ahead with what he wanted. He would not be one to die without knowing.  
  
He would not be one to die without living.  
  
He unzipped his fly, and it was an act of defiance, against his circumstance, against the killings, against the sheer concept of what he knew could be his impending death. Despite all the negativity, the fear, the hopelessness, he could find pleasure. He could find escapism, and love, and mercy.  
  
Mercy.  
  
As he leaned the pot onto his lap, his fingers found the tunnel in the bottom, meant for what he assumed was water drainage, not that he assumed much in his inebriated state. His bulge, hardened against his thigh, gave a tentative twinge, as if it were unsure what Robbie was about to do with it. But that uncertainty lasted only a fleeting moment.   
  
He wanted it.  
  
Oh, how he wanted it.  
  
He took his throbbing cock into his palm—  
  
"What the  _fuck_ _?"_  
  
Robbie glanced over his shoulder to see familiar shoulders in a familiar black robe, and, suddenly, he did not feel drunk.  
  
He stared down long hair and large, sunken-in eyes, stared down a mask held in trembling hands, stared down a knife and black combat boots, and, quietly, no,  _soundlessly_ , he clasped his lover to his chest and he waited to die.  
  
This was a betrayal that would be _without_ mercy.


End file.
